


Defiance

by trueunbeliever



Series: Defiance Trilogy [1]
Category: Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Happy Ending, Hell Trauma, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Rescue, Slave!Cas, Slavery, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trueunbeliever/pseuds/trueunbeliever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Held captive and abused by his Master, Castiel has spent the last eight-hundred years of his life as a slave. When two Hunters raid the nest, leaving him the only survivor, Cas resolves himself to serving the enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Defiant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Hey, Fearless Readers, Laura here. I'm back with a fic, as per the request of mrscastiel96 who asked for Destiel. This will be a multi-chap fic, spanning 3-5 chapters, with updates to come every Sunday until completed, unless otherwise specified. This is my first slash-fic, and it's completely different than anything else I've attempted so I need some guidance here. Let me know what you think, Readers. Whether plot holes or grammar corrections, compliments or complaints, I have an open mind and I'm keen on reading your comments and reviews.
> 
> WARNINGS: Contains non-graphic sex, violence, and inappropriate language. The first chapter will (most likely, though no promises) be the most graphic. Rating may be adjusted to suit the fic in future chapters.

It always hurts at first. Sometimes—not too often, but sometimes—it hurts the entire time, but this time after a few minutes, Castiel stops hurting. It never feels good for Castiel like Master seems to think. When he's not mad, he tries to make it feel good, but _not hurt_ seems to be the only compromise his body is willing to make.

Master's mad though so he doesn't try to make it good for Castiel, for which he is eternally grateful. Master’s hands are calloused and rough, pinching anywhere he can find purchase. Castiel knows that he's going to have bruises tomorrow, more of them to cover because, though Master likes to be rough with him, he doesn't like to see the markings. 

He finds a rhythm and bucks his hips in time with Master's thrusts. It's obvious from his quiet moans of pleasure that Master enjoys it. It doesn't normally take much for Castiel to finish him. He's gotten much better over time. One of the first things he learned was that the better it was for Master, the faster it was over for him. Sometimes his plan backfires, and Master will finish and wait a while, playing with him before going again and again. Usually, though, those nights are for when Master's been pressed into a rage he needs more than just release.

Tonight, though, Master seems almost gentle with his ministrations despite the small amount of anger he can sense.

With a twist of his hips and the rhythmic clenching of the right muscles, Castiel feels a hint of satisfaction as Master’s hips stutter to a stop deep inside him. It’s wet and messy, but it’s something he’s come to look forward to because it means Master is finished with him.

Master pulls out quickly and leans in close, right at his ear. "Go to bed. Next time, be quieter."

Castiel nods and makes his way to the floor-mat Master has gotten to replace the tattered cushion he'd slept on for years before. An ache sets in like it only does when Master is rough with him. It'll be gone in a few days though so Castiel doesn't worry too much about it.

He circles around a few times, trying to find a comfortable way to position his bruised wings on the too-small mat. Master's breathing is deep and even, peaceful in sleep. After a few minutes, Castiel's is too.

His sleep is dreamless for the first time in months. He can't count the number of times Master has woken up in a fit of rage from him crying out in the dark, but nightmares don't plague him as much as memories do. When he closes his eyes, he can see his brothers being taken from the sanctuary, one by one, until Castiel, the smallest of the litter, is the is only one left alone. He sees the haunted cast of Gabriel's face as he fights in the pits. He watches as Samandriel and Anna are taken again and again by Masters who wish for only self-gratification, even at great cost to others. He sees the pain of his past loved ones—past because he has no other loved ones now but Master, only Master—and it always breaks away a small piece of him to remember. Tonight, though, there are no dreams. There is only numbing darkness and the comfort of relaxing his muscles after the toll of the harsh days before.

His mind is a complete blank of thoughts, too exhausted to make anything but the meekest of efforts, and when Castiel wakes, he is nothing short of grateful for that.

With a glance to the clock, he notes the time. 4:28. It is two minutes until he is allowed to rise so he waits. Master isn't forgiving of those who break the rules. He remembers his last lesson well, though it has been decades. It would have taken a week of no touching to recover. As it was, it had taken over a month. Master had been cross with the time it took, and Castiel is fervent on not having that particular lesson repeated, or it will be the basement chains and crawling on hands and knees for a month. It will be the withholding of food and amenities, the absolute silence, and the welts of whip marks every night before bed.

This rule, though, is a simple one: rise at 4:30 to begin chores.

His two minutes are up relatively quickly and Castiel doesn’t waste any time. He stands and tucks his sleep-mat into the closet, picks up scattered clothes and weapons, wipes down every available surface with a bleach-rag, careful not to jostle Master from his sleep. Even with the blackout curtains, there is enough light to see by. With the sun still high in the sky, not even close to setting, he has no trouble using the rebel light to guide him through the room.

He fills a bucket quietly with scalding water and sets himself in the farthest corner, working his way toward the door. Every inch of the floor is scrubbed—quietly, so as not to wake Master—until it shines. He leaves the bucket next to the door and continues on to his next task.

Castiel tiptoes downstairs. He knows that the rest of the den is sleeping now, but they aren’t what he is afraid of. Now, he is afraid of the four dogs that guard the house. During the day, they are placed outside, but every so often, one of the Lords will keep one in, frightened—not frightened, no; Lords are _never_ frightened; they are fierce, immortal, with the strength of a dozen men—of the Hunters that may come in the day and threaten to disband them. The dogs never abide by other pets like Castiel. They are vicious, as he knows from experience.

There are no dogs this time, only the soft sounds of the Lords sleeping in their rooms. Castiel has been here long enough that he knows where every creak is in the floorboards, knows just where to touch his feet down to keep from making a noise that would wake them. Their hearing is impeccable. The first time he’d tried to run, they had caught him in minutes, his rapid heartbeat giving him away. In sleep, any unaccustomed noise is sure to rouse at least one of them.

He shivers at the thought of being so careless and twists his hips around the banister to avoid the bottom three stairs. He lands lithely on the balls of his feet, not even a soft thud to mark his fall.

It is as it has been for the three years, the same routine every day since they’d taken residence in this house. Not even a small smile of success appears on his face anymore when he makes not a sound doing so, but a slight turn of his lips as he comes to the basement door. Either he is stronger than he used to be, or he has become apathetic to it, but he has no urge to turn away or become sick with what he knows is behind the door.

The lock is old and large, but it opens easily for him. It makes only one noise, a spring and click as it disengages, then there is silence once more. He closes the door behind him, walking into the darkness, not caring now whether he makes noise. The stairs creak freely under his feet, the sound unable to pierce through to the ears of the Lords and his Master through the soundproof walls.

The basement is dark, much too dark for him to see by, but Castiel isn’t deterred by it. He is used to walking by feel alone, has the entire basement mapped out. More often than not, there isn’t enough light to see by even in the house while the Lords sleep. In the basement, the only light he will have is a single candle that cannot be lit without oft-forgotten matches. Castiel is surprised when his hand brushes a newly placed matchbox on the table, one with nearly a dozen matches inside, beside the small box of replacement candles.

The small flame doesn’t illuminate the entire room, but it is bright enough to light his way. Three women, fully clothed now, huddle in on themselves, trying to keep warm in the damp coolness of the room. Their faces are gaunt and their features are slack with exhaustion. The sight of them is off-putting, but he is more than familiar with it, even if these particular women are new. With a touch of his grace, Castiel releases one from her bindings.

She looks up at him, shocked to be free, but Castiel does nothing but take her by the arm and pull her into the bathroom through the door opposite the stairs. He cuffs her to the hook drilled into the wall and leaves her there to gather supplies.

The water is cold, much colder than his own baths are, but when he finishes, there is no doubt that she is clean. In all likelihood, she will not survive the month, but the Lords are quick to anger when the slaves assault their already heightened senses so cleanliness is one of his main priorities.

The women, though they are only a day or two old, have undoubtedly learned not to scream already. Small whimpers when he splashes her with water are all he gets as he scours her skin from head to toe, making sure to scrub well the most intimate parts of her, even as she shivers in fear.

With a silent prayer, he touches his fingers to her forehead and soothes the aches in her body, sending her into a much needed sleep while his grace heals the worst of her wounds. There is not much he has to spare with the runes carved into the collar at his neck, but there is enough for that.

By the time he finishes with the slaves, the sun has begun to set and casts the house into shadow. Not a single shred of evening light illuminates his way as he walks up the stairs and reseals the basement door where the slaves are kept. They will be fed in the morning like they always are. Any more than that and Master will not be thrilled with the generosity.

The kitchen is near to him, but Castiel makes his way upstairs to gather the other pets. All six kneel just outside of their respective doors, awaiting their orders from him. He had taken too long with the slaves, but the pets don’t seem to have noticed. Their faces are blank masks, their wills crushed to extinction. Of the seven of them, Castiel is the only one who continues to rebel, and even _his_ defiance has been curbed. The others are near-perfect models of efficiency, and Castiel employs that aspect of them now.

When they catch sight of him, they rise and follow him downstairs, all stepping uniformly in the same spots to avoid noise. He sends half of them to the closet to gather supplies, two to the kitchen to prepare food, and the final one to collect the laundry. The latter had obviously been worked over the night before, but he pays the pet no mind other than to assign him the most menial of tasks before he busies himself with readying the house for the Lords’ awakening.

With the sun having set behind the mountains, he opens the curtains and flicks on the low wattage lamps throughout the house. Their demeanor does not change, but Castiel is certain the pets find the light much more comforting than bustling around in the dark, even though they generally live in the night.

Castiel hasn’t seen the sun in decades, hasn’t stepped foot outside in a year. The thought bothers him much more than he thinks it should, but he presses it deep down and continues on with his chores. The potpourri is changed, the towels in the bathrooms are replaced, the rugs are beaten out over the balcony on the second floor and set back in their proper places. He can smell the food being prepared in the kitchen, and he knows that the Lords will awaken shortly when coffee begins to perforate the air. There are still a half-dozen chores to finish before that time.

He walks back downstairs, nods to missed spot on the floor for one of the pets to clean, and enters the kitchen for a final inspection. The food is nearly prepared and the rest of the house is impeccable, perfect. Not a single picture frame is out of place. All things are in their proper order. Even dust motes in the air are practically nonexistent.

The basement door is opened once more with a flick of his grace. They all know what is coming, but none of the women scream. It is better a needle than the sharp fangs of teeth.

He returns to the pets with three pints of blood—B-Negative for the cooks’ Masters, A-Negative for the cleaners’, and O-Positive for his and the launder’s. The pouches are far from easy to pour from, but he has had practice enough not to spill a drop as he divides the spoils among the trays. The two pets with him finish wiping down the surfaces of the kitchen before taking their respective trays of food upstairs to their Masters, not even a padding of footsteps to signal their departure.

Castiel hears the quiet latch of the hall closet and the three pets enter the kitchen to gather their own trays, leaving just as quietly as the other two had. Five minutes pass with him alone in the kitchen. He glances at the clock—8:10—and worries his bottom lip over the launder’s delay. The pet—Lord Nikolas’s, he thinks the name is—had not looked particularly well, limping despite his training, and Castiel knows something is wrong.

He walks briskly to the laundry room, prepared for what he sees only because of his inability to be shocked at the den’s cruelty.

The pet is badly injured. Bruises pepper his side and welts show plainly on his back and thighs, but that is not an uncommon occurrence. More often than not, the pets show their Masters’ markings. It is not the external injuries that concern Castiel. The pet is prepped against the door frame, clenching his stomach in pain while the clothes spin soundly in the drier, tears in his eyes as he holds in screams of pain with a herculean effort. Castiel fingers the pet’s chin bringing his head up to look him in the eye—something the pets have all been trained against, even by Castiel—reaches for his last bit of grace, and presses it inside.

Castiel watches it work. He sees a deep-rooted calm take hold of the pet, followed by the smallest inkling of peace. It takes a minute for the pain to subside, and the bruising does not go away completely, but the what damage to the pet that is left, is insubstantial. Its job complete, the grace recedes. The pet’s eyes dim again with the knowledge that he is to return to a Master that is angered with him, but there is no mistaking the glint of gratitude in his eye.

Without a word, the pet follows Castiel into the kitchen and gathers his tray in his hands, only stopping when Castiel makes no move to grab his own tray. The pet’s face betrays his terror when he watches Castiel pick the prepared glass of blood off of the tray on the counter and pour it down the drain. Castiel gives a minute shake of his head at what he supposes to be a protest, then empties the rest of the food into the garbage.

The pet stands in shock, clenching his own tray in fear of what Castiel will do to it, but Castiel merely reaches out and hands him a piece of paper.

The pet will know what it is, come morning. Castiel can only hope that he is smart enough to begin the chores upon waking instead of stupidly waiting for Castiel to come retrieve them, especially with the warning that is included on the bottom of the list. There is no doubt in his mind that he will be otherwise indisposed this coming week. The pet takes the paper and, without looking at it, walks away with his tray, serving his Master.

Despite his apprehension, Castiel does not hesitate at the stairs or in the threshold of Master’s bedroom. Instead, he walks in boldly, keeping his eyes level instead of casting them downward as he has been trained to do. He goes to stand beside Master’s bedside and waits for his orders.

“I don’t suppose there will be breakfast this morning,” Master comments.

“No,” Castiel responds, knowing that speaking is the quickest way to a beating unless given express permission.

Master tsks. “Oh, my pet,” he worries. “When will you learn?”

But Castiel doesn’t respond. Master knows exactly what he is doing, instigating a punishment. It is a personal insult for Castiel to continue this way, to make the house as orderly as it is possible before his act of defiance because it proves that Castiel is defiant by choice, not by accident. It shows that he holds onto his will through a stubborn sense of… not pride, it isn’t pride, but something like it. Determination, maybe.

Castiel knows he has become too complacent in this place, too like the human pets the other Lords keep. He knows without a doubt that he is broken. What he isn’t is completely drained of anything but his Master’s will.

 _This_ is the only way he survives with a part of himself. _This_ is his only respite from the habitual submission that he is forced into. _This_ is the only way he can live with the decisions he’s made and the things he’s been made to do. _This_ is how he fights for his freedom.

Castiel expects the pain that instantly flows through him at Master’s incantation. The collar at his neck heats rapidly and brings him to his knees. There is no resisting it with the spells laced through, forcing him to obey every one of Master’s commands.

Castiel knows that, should Master utilize the collar that came with his pet, should Master want it, he could be forced to do as Master wishes, but Master does not want that. Master wants Castiel to break, wants him to obey every command, not out of force, but out of his own want and need to obey. He wants Castiel to become his pet, not his slave, not  his captive, and that is something Castiel has fought against for the last eight-hundred years.

“You had been doing so well, too,” Master says sadly once Castiel’s face is pressed to the floor in a low bow. There is a hint of anger in his words, and another of unrepressed glee. He is furious Castiel has found the gall to oppose him, but there is no doubt that Master will enjoy the punishment that is sure to follow.

Master’s first row of teeth descend threateningly from his gums in sharp points. Castiel’s resolve only wavers for a moment, but he hides the fear deep within himself and stares directly into Master’s eyes, watching the pupils contract, anticipating the taste of Castiel’s blood. In one quick strike, Master latches onto his neck, sucking in time with Castiel’s beating heart.

Castiel waits for it, waits for the expression of displeasure…

And there it is. The small grunt that comes from Master’s throat is enough to make this worth it.

Castiel smiles.

The lack of grace in his blood is just another act of rebelliousness on his part. Master doesn’t know where it has gone, doesn’t know that it has been used to heal—won’t know as long as the pet and the slaves know well enough to lie—and it forces Master to realize that he cannot own Castiel, not completely, cannot make Castiel anything but an unwilling slave.

Master’s fury is something to see. It is beautiful in its chaos and in its strength. Even amongst the pain that floods his body when Master’s teeth tighten on his neck, set on draining him of blood, Castiel can appreciate his fury. This time… this time, he’ll surely have angered Master enough to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the first chapter and the premise for the fic. Nothing after this point has been written. It's all just a jumble of plot bunnies hopping around in my head and has yet to be put in print. The title is also a working one and will be replaced once my muse sees fit to name the fic appropriately. Have a suggestion? A prediction? Something you think would be totally awesome to read and want it in here, now? Include it in your review :) and until next time, Readers, read on!
> 
> P. S. Chapter 2 will be written, edited, and posted by Sunday!


	2. Violent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter for you, Readers :) Don't forget to comment!

“So get this,” Sam says, moving his laptop from the table to the bed across from Dean. “The missing women in Ohio? I found a link. Turns out the disappearances go back three years, and there’s a pattern. It’s in the blood. Every time it’s O-Positive, A-Negative, and B-Negative. I went back and expanded my search. The same pattern pops up all the way to Northwest Minnesota.”

His brother just stares off into space, not having heard a word he said.

Sam sighs. He can’t say that he didn’t expect this, that he didn’t already know his brother would be broken, that Dean wouldn’t be able to just ‘shake things off’ like he’d always been able to do in the past. Still, that doesn’t mean that Sam’s not losing some of his patience.

It’s been _six months_ , but Dean still hasn’t gotten much better, and except for that first week—

Sam shuts down that trail of thought before it can even begin.

Dean still has nightmares, still wakes screaming in the middle of the night, still spends more time in his head, trapped in his thoughts, than anything else. Sam’s lost—not as lost as Dean is, but still lost in his own way—because he doesn’t know how to help his brother, doesn’t know how to fix someone who’s so obviously broken.

“Dean.” He jostles his brother’s arm, trying to shake him loose from his stupor.

Dean’s pulled from whatever place he was in and moves away from Sam with quick, jerky movements. Sam nearly sighs in relief when Dean grabs his boots to finish dressing. Recently, he’s been getting better, but it wouldn’t have been the first time Dean came out of it with a few punches.

Sam watches Dean surreptitiously, noting all of the changes in his brother. Dean’s thinner and paler than he had been, and his face looks older by about a decade, though he’s sure that Dean could have passed for his late teens just a year before. He still has the same mannerisms, still puts his boots on the same way, still flips his watch to set it on his wrist, still combs his hand through his hair, but it’s also different somehow, and Sam knows it’s because his brother isn’t all there. There’s pieces of him missing, his soul having been torn to shreds for _decades_ before Sam got to him. He’s old and tired and broken, but if there’s one thing that transcends all of that, the one thing that makes Dean who he is…

“Found us a Hunt,” Sam says.

Though he tries to keep it cool, Sam can see the way Dean lightens at the words. “Where we headed, Danny?”

Sam doesn’t correct him. The name is close enough that he can let it slide. “Northeast Ohio. Three women in Canton are missing. I’m thinking witches—blood ritual.” He passes the laptop to Dean, watching as his brother takes in all of the information without much more than a passing glance, eyes focused solely on the photos of the bodies found the week before.

There isn’t a tightening of his eyes as he examines the too-young women, bodies haphazardly dumped after what looks like months of captivity. His demeanor doesn’t change in the least. It’s just another thing that Sam knows is different. Dean wouldn’t have shown much before, but he would have shown _something_ to signal his distaste—a small turn of the lips or the creasing of his brow—but his face remains passive.

“Vampires,” is all Dean says before he hands the laptop back and returns to the bed. He checks his pistol and slides it into his waistband, relaxing just a fraction of an inch with the weapon on him.  

“The throats weren’t ripped out of the last victims,” Sam argues. “And they weren’t exsanguinated, just a little anemic. Besides, vampires aren’t usually this organized. They travel and hunt in packs, but they take people for a _few days_ , drain them dry, and dump them in the woods. They don’t hold them for months, without turning them, and leave the bodies unmangled when they dump them. Besides, their deaths coincide with the Harvest Moon. It’s looking more like witches to me.”

Dean just nods his head, not arguing like he once would have. Instead, he stands abruptly and, with a concentration reserved for cleaning weapons, begins packing up their stuff, not that there’s much of it to begin with. Living out of a duffle bag has its advantages. Nearly everything is already ready to go, but Dean avoids him like the plague while he grabs what items of clothing they left in the bathroom and the few scattered weapons they have lying around.

“Where are we going?” Dean asks, shocking Sam. Usually, he doesn’t speak without some sort of prompting, especially when he’s skittish.

“Canton, Ohio.”

Dean nods once, a contemplative look on his face. “Where are we now?”

“Greenville.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow as if to say _which one, dumbass?_

It’s so like a face the old Dean would have made that Sam can’t help the smile that breaks out across his face. “Michigan.”

Dean grimaces and looks away, his entire demeanor changing back.

“We’ll be there in six hours, give or take,” Sam continues. “Wanna stop somewhere first, get something to eat?”

Dean shakes his head. “Let’s go,” he says, voice trying for jovial and missing completely. He picks up the two bags at his feet and tosses a smirk over his shoulder. There’s no doubt that he’s trying. “We’re wastin’ daylight, Spencer.”

“It’s Sammy.”

Dean winces. “Sammy,” he whispers reverently. “Sam.”

Then he’s out the door and Sam can’t see him through the too-familiar hotel room walls. He knows that it’s hard for Dean, knows that things are still jumbled in his head some, though it’s been a while since Hell, but that doesn’t make it any better when Dean forgets his name. He’s used to correcting Dean, used to glaring at his brother for using his childhood nickname— _Sammy_ , as if he was still in grade school—but back then, he knew that it was because Dean was reminiscent of better days, of a time when Sam all but hero-worshipped the guy and things were smaller and simpler than a demon a day and going to Hell.

Sam picks up his own bags and exits the room just as Dean slams the trunk closed. He sighs again, knowing that Dean forgot to leave it open for him, just like he keeps forgetting that Sam exists. He doesn’t know how long exactly Dean spent Down Below, but for it to have been long enough for him to have trouble remembering his own brother… Sam doesn’t like to think about it.

He pops the trunk of the Impala and tosses his bags in next to Dean’s and gets into the driver’s seat. It’s just another thing that’s changed with his brother that he hasn’t asked even _once_ to drive his baby since his resurrection. Instead, the drive is long and quiet thanks to the lack of terrible music and Dean’s inability to hold a conversation for more than a few minutes at a time.

The drive passes in a blur of boredom, both too long to have merely taken a few hours and too uninteresting for him to remember much of it in the first place. Dean gets out of the passenger side and stretches his muscles out. The long drives always get to the both of them. They’re used to it, though, so other than a long stretch in the hotel parking lot, they don’t pay any attention to their stiff limbs.

“Grab a room,” Sam says to Dean. “I’ll get food.”

Dean grimaces, but nods his head and walks quickly enough to the office.

Sam heads in the direction of the diner he saw on their way into town, trying to think of what to get Dean that he’ll eat. His face is more than gaunt; he’s practically emaciated with how little he’s been able to force Dean to eat. With the constant Hunting and their on-the-go lifestyle, Sam’s honestly surprised his brother hasn’t starved to death already.

He settles on oatmeal and a bowl of fruit. At the very least, he can get Dean to take those damn multi-vitamins he’d grabbed a few—hundred—towns back. He knows he can’t expect things to change over night, but he can’t help but miss even the most annoying aspects of his brother, like stuffing food in his face every change he got. It’s the small things that worry Sam, like the way he glares at his food, as if it was the enemy, and refuses to eat more than what is _absolutely necessary_. He’ll be lucky if Dean eats even a fraction of what he buys.

“I got you oatmeal,” Sam says, when Dean opens the door to their room—double queens like always.

And holy crap.

It’s only been a half hour, but Dean’s been busy. In true Winchester fashion, newspaper clippings, police reports, photos of the victims, and various other bouts of information are pinned to the wall in mock-organization. He’s sure Dean understands this mess, but Sam’s completely floundered. It’s hard sometimes, being unable to read his brother’s mind like he used to. As it is, he can hardly understand half of it.

Dean takes the Styrofoam container and sets it on the table, not even looking in it before casting it aside.

Sam smothers yet another sigh and slips quietly into Hunter-Mode. “What do we have?” he asks.

“Three victims taken two weeks ago, just before the last victims were found. Vamps are setting up shop here,” Dean says, pointing to a photo of a mansion that’s been taped over a map.

Sam quirks an eyebrow. “I thought it was witches.” It isn’t that he’s a skeptic as much as… well, he’s a skeptic.

“I told you it’s vampires.” Dean’s eyes flash dangerously, but when he blinks, the look is gone, and Sam’s sure he imagined it.

“Alright,” he says, playing peacemaker. “Vampires. How’d you find the nest?”

Dean rolls his eyes and chuckles, old Dean again for the space of three seconds. It makes Sam’s chest ache. “Like you’re the only one who knows how to use a computer. I tracked the victims. The disappearances only go back a few years _here_ , but there’ve been more. It’s not just women, but men and kids, man. They’ve been at this for a while. Same pattern,” he says pointing to another spot on the wall where a mess of victims’ names and information is displayed. “Blood types match, missing on the same night, different areas, gone for a few months and then found dead. Traced it back two-hundred years before the reports were too sketchy to trust.”

Dean points to another section of the wall. “This dude, Micah Kinlan, bought the mansion right before the girls went missing. He’s been holed up there for years with his ‘family.’ Other than him, everyone else in the town either has an alibi or is totally unequipped to kidnap anyone.”

Sam’s impressed. More than impressed. He’s downright awed. “Alibis? I know I took a while, but even you can’t check a town’s worth of alibis in a half hour.”

Dean looks at him as if he’s grown a third head. “Did you even _read_ the police reports?” he asks insultingly. “They’ve been bending over backwards to get a proper search warrant for this place. Kinlan has every judge in the state in his back pocket.”

Sam continues looking at the wall, more and more of the information making sense to him as he stares. There are the police reports on the missing girls tied directly to the victims’ names in the upper corner. The map and the mansion are linked with both of them and also to the haphazardly scrawled addresses that Dean was able to trace to the coven— _nest,_ he reminds himself. Then there are the off-putting crime scene photos scattered throughout, with links to the map—dump sites, he sees. They aren’t gruesome like some of the others he’s seen, but the way the victims seem to look through the photos with dead eyes makes him more than a little uncomfortable.

“You ready to go?”

“What?” Sam asks dumbly.

“Hunting? Vampires? It’s daylight. We kinda need to get a move on before we run out of it.”

Sam shakes his head. Dean’s moving a little too fast for him to keep up. “It’s not vampires, Dean,” he says, trying his best to be soothing.

Dean doesn’t seem to care one way or the other. “Fine. It’s witches. Tonight’s still a full moon. They have three girls, and what are the odds they’re gonna want to wait for the next one?”

Damn. He may not like it, but Dean’s right. They don’t have much time if the second night of the full moon is tonight. They might already be too late.

“Exactly,” Dean says at whatever expression Sam has on his face. “That leaves us with now. Let’s go.”

Sam sets his food down on the table and, like Dean, starts attaching weapons. He grabs his two iron blades and straps them down along with his pistol. Witches are fairly easy, just a bullet to the head. Even the most powerful can be put down with a bit of iron. He ignores Dean strapping more than a few syringes of dead man’s blood and a machete to his back. The blood won’t work, but at least beheading will. He’s not too worried. Dean’s going to be carrying his pistol and he’ll make sure to pack enough iron rounds for the both of them.

The drive to the mansion is comparatively short. It’s spent with Sam in the driver’s seat, nearly hopping with anticipation. The rumble of the engine doesn’t do much to quell the rising adrenaline that’s flooding his system, telling him _go, fight, now, run_. Dean doesn’t seem to be as affected, but there’s no doubting that his brother’s demeanor says he’s ready for a fight.

Sam sleuths from the car, Dean at his back, and makes his way around to the back of the property. The dogs are easily dispatched, a few tranqs shot into their systems that’ll put them down for a few hours, no harm, no foul.

They hop the fence with practiced movements, landing with a dull pat of their feet on damp grass, and make their way quickly to the back of the house. Dean’s skills are still in tact, as proved by how fast he picks the lock to the back door. Then, they’re both inside the house, silent but for their harsh breathing. Sam sees a flicker of movement down the hall and is walking towards it before he even registers having seen something—someone.

The man isn’t who he expects to find in the overly-adorned mansion around him, and Sam doesn’t come out of his shock as quickly as Dean does—that is, _if_ Dean is shocked in the first place. His brother’s arm snakes past him, pinning the man to the wall. He’s tall and so terrified that he’s shaking, but Dean holds tight to keep him from either running or cowering like he’s so obviously inclined. Shivers crawl down the man’s bare back, enhancing the long-healed scars that embellish his torso under the large bruises and cuts that are in various stages of healing—the most prominent of which being the fresh bite marks on his neck.

“Blood-slave,” Dean says, and Sam knows his brother is right. There’s no mistaking those for anything but fang marks. “Where are they? Dean asks, voice low and threatening.

The man merely shivers at the commanding tone and casts his eyes downward.

“Where are they?” Dean asks again. “Speak.”

“Who, my lord?” the man asks quietly. He flinches slightly, obviously expecting some form of retribution for not knowing the answer to Dean’s inquiry.

“The vampires,” Sam says at the same time as Dean answers, “Your masters.”

It isn’t until he hears this that he understands. This is something Dean is used to seeing. He hasn’t talked much about his time in Hell, but Sam remembers some of it. This isn’t new for his brother.

“Speak,” Dean commands again.

“Upstairs,” the blood-slave says, voice somehow weaker than before.

“Which room? Speak.” It isn’t any voice Dean could have had from before. This is a voice he gained in Hell, one that that has no qualms with browbeating a victim if it means getting the offender.

The slave doesn’t even have a chance. “Third on the right.”

It’s more than Sam thought they were going to get, but then Dean’s off, flying up the stairs, taking them two at a time, while Sam’s stuck on the ground floor with a now-cowering blood-slave.

“Hey,” he says soothingly, staring after his brother. “It’s going to be alright.” But the words fall on deaf ears. Sam doesn’t know what to do with the man. Dean needs help—even _he_ can’t clear an entire nest on his own, not one this elaborate—but at the same time, he can’t just leave the man here all alone. It’s too much of a risk that he’ll call out for his master and get one of them killed.

But then there’s a yell from upstairs, and Sam figures that the element of surprise is gone now anyway. He turns back to the blood-slave, surprised that the man is no longer cowering like before, but slumped in the corner, unconscious. Sam leaves him there and takes the stairs two at a time, rushing to put himself at Dean’s back. He arrives just in time to see the second head fall. It tumbles to the floor and rolls a few feet before coming to rest in the corner.

Just like that, a second blood-slave—one Sam doesn’t see until he makes a choked sound—falls to the floor in a heap, neither of them able to catch him before he’s already down. Dean’s out of the room after that, moving on to the next, while Sam checks on the fallen man.

He turns the man over, surprised that there’s two of them, not just the one, with years-old scars and welts and bruises and fang-marks. Two blood slaves among the nest, and they still took female victims?

Two of the wounds are fresh, but obviously infected, so Sam tends to those first, quickly cleaning and dressing them. He trusts Dean to be able to hold his own, or at the very least to call out to him if he’s in serious trouble, but he doesn’t hear anything, so he assumes all is well. Sam examines him further and is surprised to find that something important is missing: the rise and fall of his chest. Two fingers to the man’s neck and Sam realizes something—they aren’t just ordinary blood slaves.

“Dean?” he calls, trying to keep the panic out of his voice and failing miserably. “Dean?!”

Sam rises and nearly falls over himself looking for Dean, but his brother isn’t in the next room, or even in the one after that. Sam needs to find him, needs to tell him what he knows. The blood-slaves are more than just something to feed from. Their fates are tied with their vampire masters. Killing them means killing the victims, but he’s wasted too much time. He sees vampire head after vampire head amongst the bodies of fallen blood-slaves, but that’s all. Dean is nowhere in sight.

How long was he there on the floor, he wonders, before he figured out what was happening? It couldn’t have been too long. Four minutes? Five?

Sam climbs the stairs to the third floor, nearly collapsing in relief when he catches a glimpse of Dean disappearing through the single doorway in the short hall.

“Dean, stop!” he yells, trying to keep his brother from killing any more of the vampires, but it’s too late. He arrives just in time to watch the sharp-edged machete cut through the neck of the final vampire.

Dean’s eyes shine with unrepentant bloodlust and a glee that Sam finds sickening to his stomach. This isn’t his brother, he knows in these instances. This is the thing Hell turned him into.

“Dean,” he whispers, though he knows he missed his chance. He watches in horror as the final blood-slave collapses onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter will be posted in one week, next Sunday. Comments? Questions? Complaints? Concerns? Criticisms? I'm all ears :) Read on!


	3. Obedient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Readers, Laura here :) Just want to let you know that chapter three is now up. Read on!

When Castiel wakes, it’s suddenly and with a start. The room around him is unfamiliar, the two men even more so. He feels like he should know them, but he doesn’t. They’re just two unnamed men in a hotel room, in the middle of Oklahoma, arguing with all the volume of a light breeze. He doesn’t stop to ponder how they’d traveled so far without him knowing, just listens to the argument happening quietly around him.

“…almost killed him, Dean.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know? I can’t just…”

“…should have listened.”

“…could have gotten us killed…”

He tries to tune in, to enhance his hearing just enough to make out the words that are spoken in anger, even if they’re quiet enough not to have woken him, but when he reaches for his grace—just a little, not much—it’s gone, empty.

It’s supposed to be there. It was full, completely full, just before they came into the room, just before…

Oh. Oh _._

…just before they killed Master.

For the first time in a century, Castiel feels like cursing his father.

Tears spring to his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. These men, with their weapons and their anger, who knows what they would punish him for? With Master, he knew the rules that were carved into him—sometimes quite literally—and paid for in blood. These men aren’t good. The tall one has darkness inside of him and the other has been twisted by the depths of Hell. Castiel can smell it on him with nearly every breath.

“…awake…”

He hears the tall one speak and casts his gaze down. It doesn’t matter who his new Masters are. These rules, at least, are universal. Chores are easy. They’ll tell him what they want. Personal rules are much the same. When Master—not Master anymore, he reminds himself; Master is dead—wanted someone different or when Castiel acted up, he would sometimes have a new Master to please for a while. ]

He can do this. He’s used to it.

“Hey.” The previously arguing Masters are looking at him now, he can feel it, but this too is familiar. He’s used to people looking at his unclothed…

It isn’t until then that he realizes that he’s no longer naked. But more surprising than that is where they have him. He’s in a _bed_. He’s in a bed and he is wearing clothing. He’s more than confused. He’s terrified. The only time he’s allowed on a bed is when he’s servicing Master or the Lords. The only time he’s allowed clothing is on an outing. He’s doing neither and both of his new Masters are looking at him with unreadable expressions.

This is bad, very bad.

He can’t deal with another punishment so soon. They won’t kill him for this, he’s sure of it, but even a small beating while he’s out of grace will maim him permanently. At this moment in time, after what his old Master had done, it will probably do more than that. It will push him over that edge and break him completely.

He won’t let that happen.

He’s out of bed in a flash, nerve endings on fire with the effort of lifting his body, but he doesn’t let the pain register on his face while he disrobes. He can’t service his new Masters in such restrictive clothing. With more effort than he’d ever exuded on such a menial task, the buttons come undone under his fingers.

Before he reaches the last one, he feels a hand on his arm and pauses. It isn’t verbal, but Castiel takes it for the order it is: stop.

His arms go slack at his sides and he allows Master to reposition the ill-fitted shirt over his torso. If Master is fixing his clothing then he’s meant to be wearing it. That means he’s going out. But more importantly, it means that Castiel is inadvertently defying orders by taking his shirt off.

Lashes, he decides. It’ll probably be lashes.

There is no doubt in his mind that his actions warrant repercussion. He should have waited for the order before moving. New Masters mean New Rules. He can’t anticipate their wishes until he learns them. The lashes sound almost justifiable in his mind when he realizes his mistake. It’s the only way he’ll truly remember them. Pain is an excellent motivator when it’s applied correctly.

But Master doesn’t move other than to guide him back down to the bed, under the blessedly warm comforter with a soft, “you need to lie down.”

And that’s bad, horrible really, because he knows that he now has a caring Master.

They’re the worst, the most violent, the ultimate of highs and lows. Their happiness hangs on Castiel’s reaction to their advances, and their anger is fueled by betrayal. They’re more likely to get carried away in their punishments when rage takes hold. It’s much easier dealing with the cold, calculated punishments of the indifferent. He is more oft to sleep in pain, but the healing doesn’t take nearly as long after a violent session.

How are they going to react when he isn’t receptive to their ministrations in bed? he wonders. But he knows he doesn’t really want to find out. He has plenty of memories to pull from, doesn’t even need his imagination to anticipate their reactions. For now, it’s enough that he’s sure the consequences of his earlier assumption will be small in comparison, that they’ll see he was just trying to please and not offend.

“What’s your name?” Master asks.

Other Master stays silent, allowing the tall one to speak. Maybe he’s wrong and they’re both not his Master. Maybe he just has the one. Either way, he knows this test. He hasn’t fallen for it since he was a fledgling, and he won’t now. Masters want to see if he’s trained.

Master sighs as if disappointed, but he doesn’t make a move against him and Castiel is confused. The sigh is enough that Castiel would have thought that Master just wants an excuse to hit him, that he needs a release, but Castiel has given him plenty of opportunities, and he hasn’t been struck once. He doesn’t know what it means, but he stays silent anyway.

“I need to know,” Master says. “Please.”

It isn’t direct permission, but he supposes that it will do. Castiel is receptive enough that he can tell Master means his words, really does want him to speak. “Castiel,” he says softly, just loud enough that they can hear him without straining, but not enough to seem defiant. If nothing else, he’s an obedient pet. They’ll see.

The small smile that breaks across Master’s face at the word is enough that he knows he’s right about this being the worst type of Master. He won’t be broken, but he’ll be twisted enough by the end of this that he’ll want to be. He’s sure of it.

“Castiel.”

Master says it like he’s trying it out, like it’s strange on his tongue. Maybe he’ll want to change it. It’s not his place to want anything, but Castiel kind of hopes that he won’t do that even though he knows that he won’t make a protest if he does.

“I’m Sam,” Master says instead. “That’s Dean.” He points to the other Master and Castiel obediently looks to where he’s pointing. Master Dean nods once, arms crossed against his chest as he leans against the dresser.

Compared to Master Sam, Master Dean is short, but Castiel is sure that both of them tower over him. There’s something else about him though. Master Dean is much easier to read than Master Sam. With just a glimpse before casting his eyes back down, Castiel can see the pain of the tortured in his gaze, read the missing pieces of his soul like a map. There aren’t many who would understand what it’s like to be broken like Castiel has, but he has no doubts that Master Dean is one who would. He has a knowing look on his face, one that tells Castiel that he’s been in the same position, knows exactly what it’s like to be like him.

Castiel shivers at the thought of Master Dean being a pet to anyone, and is surprised at the righteous anger that takes hold of him at the image. It’s been so long since he’s felt something so powerful that he isn’t able to hold onto it before it’s gone, giving way to confusion over his reaction. He doesn’t like the thought of Master Dean crawling on his hands and knees for anyone.

“Castiel,” Master Sam says, calling his attention.

Now isn’t the time to dwell on the sudden anger, but a time for obedience.

“How do you take off the collar?”

Castiel remains silent. There was no permission this time.

“Please, Castiel,” Master Sam says, so he speaks.

“I can’t,” he says.

Master hears the slight emphasis on the first word and immediately follows with another question. “Who can?”

“Master Dean,” he says. He could have stayed silent, but he knows Master Sam wants answers, not silence. New Rules. He keeps his tone in check, though, and he is more than a little unsure as to why Master Sam is asking these questions.

“Dean?” The disbelief is real, not a ruse.

Master Dean took him, killed his old Master. Of course he is the only one who can remove the collar. Castiel does not answer the question, though. He’s sure that Master Sam does not wish for confirmation.

“Don’t look at me,” Master Dean says. The deep-spoken words send an shock through him, the collar reacting to his new Master, working as a conductor for his will.

Master Sam may be in charge of the situation, but the collar is aware of its true Master. Castiel is sure he won’t forget anyway. He’s glad that it is Master Dean who owns him. Broken or not, he exudes a confidence that Castiel has only been able to relate to the best of Masters, the ones who paid him no mind as long as he didn’t forget his place, the ones who’s repercussions were tolerable, if severe, the ones who took no pleasure in pain, but in obedience. He can be Master Dean’s pet, he’s sure of it.

“Why is Dean the only one who can remove the collar?” Master Sam asks him.

“Because he is Master.”

Master Sam sighs in disappointment again, but Castiel is unsure of how to respond in a way that will please him. That is the only explanation that he has for the collar’s use. Master put it on him to control him after… after. It makes sure that he can be controlled like a good pet.

It’s Master Dean this time who speaks to him. “How do we take it off, Castiel?”

He hates that he doesn’t have any information that can be helpful. “I don’t know,” he says. His old Master wouldn’t tell him, said it was too dangerous for him to know how to remove it. Castiel only knows its purpose, no more than that.

“Research?” Master Sam asks.

He doesn’t see it, but he’s sure that Master Dean nods.

“Get some sleep,” Master Dean says to him.

Castiel nods and removes himself from the bed again, this time to sleep. Obviously, Masters are displeased with his service or else they would take him like they’d planned—why else would he have woken on a bed? What other purpose could he have had? But now they know how little he has to offer them and they are discomfited by him. He is not enough for them, and they are unsatisfied with their choice in pet.

The disappointment rests heavily on him as he tries to find a way to rest on the hard floor with his still-healing wings. It hurts, more than he ever thought possible.

“What are you doing?” Master Sam asks, his tone unreadable. There’s just the barest hint of anger lacing it and that’s enough to have Castiel tensed for a strike.

“Going to sleep,” Castiel says, too used to answering his questions to stop now.

It’s Master Dean who sighs this time, but it’s nothing like Master Sam’s. He seems almost amused, like he finds Castiel’s behavior funny somehow. “You sleep on the bed, Cas,” he says.

Castiel doesn’t question it. He’s too shocked at the casual way Master uttered his name. It isn’t the same, not at all similar to the name he was given: Castiel. It’s been the name of a soldier, a brother, a captive, a slave, a pet. But this name is different.

He’s not sure what it is.

But soon, it doesn’t matter. Master Dean guides him back to the bed, noting the way he winces when he lies back. He doesn’t mean to show it, but his wings are still too damaged to touch without doing so. He’s sure neither of his Masters can see them. He may belong to them, but they are still humans, humans who aren’t able to perceive the celestial presence of an angel’s grace. His old Master, on the other hand, was old enough to, not only perceive them, but to hold them tightly in his grasp and rip them from his back.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but it was always the worst of his punishments, reserved for when Castiel’s will reared its ugly head. Without his grace to heal him, they weren’t even a quarter grown when Masters Sam and Dean stormed the nest and killed his old Master. Now, with his grace depleted again to zero, it will be months yet until they are full-grown.

“Turn over,” Master Dean says to him. His words are soft, but there is the barest undertone of an order so Castiel does as he’s told. “Do they still hurt?” he asks.

Castiel isn’t sure what he means, isn’t allowed to question Master, so he remains silent, knowing that there is no way out of the punishment that is sure to follow his silence.

“Your wings,” Master Dean clarifies, sensing somehow the struggle in Castiel’s mind.

“Yes,” he says, not wanting to lie. He’s never felt a greater pain than that of his missing wings because the pain isn’t physical. Gut-wrenchingly deep, seared into his essence, his very existence, are the scars of what’s been done to him.

“Stay off of your back,” Master Dean orders. “Tell me when it hurts too much.”

Castiel nods, relieved that Master doesn’t want to cause him more pain than he’s capable of enduring. He hears Master Dean walk away, murmuring again with Master Sam in tones too low to decipher. His confusion doesn’t last very long this time when he realizes that the collar does much more than receive Master’s orders.

He doesn’t dwell too much on it, though. Master told him to sleep, so he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that concludes the third chapter of this fic. There are two more to come. I will post the fourth chapter this coming Wednesday, May 7. It's nearly complete and it should be finished and edited. The final chapter, then, will come this Sunday. Since this is nearing the end, now's your chance to bring anything up you'd like me to specifically put in the fic. Either that or just give me something to smile over... like a review. Hint, hint ;) Read on, Fearless Readers, and don't forget to review!


	4. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Chapter 4 is here! You know what to do... read on!

It takes a minute for Dean to wake up, but when he does, it’s with a warm body tucked comfortably into his side. It’s strange, but not an altogether unpleasant feeling, and he most definitely isn’t pushing it away. It doesn’t take much for him to reach over and pull whoever-it-is close, basking in the warmth. He synchronizes his breathing to the rise and fall of the chest next to him, deep and even and comfortable. It’s nice, he thinks, nice to feel good, to not wake up from a nightmare.

Then the door to the hotel room opens and Dean’s up and out of bed, knife in hand, before it can close.

The intruder is tall and muscular, wide awake despite the earliness, two cups of coffee in his hands. A threat, most definitely, and the coffee will burn like hell if the man decides to throw it.

“Whoa. Settle down, Dean. It’s just me.”

The man won’t throw it, though, because Dean knows him. It’s… Todd? Dean relaxes after a half-second and rubs his hands over his face. Damn, why can’t he remember?

“How’s he doing?”

“Fine.” Dean takes a deep breath. “Had a few nightmares—whimpering and stuff. I don’t think he’s used to sleeping in a bed.” And that’s probably the least of their problems. Cas isn’t used to anything they want him to do, especially when it comes to speaking out. Getting him not to do chores just makes him more withdrawn, probably makes him feel useless, and Dean isn’t loathe to admit that it’s nice having someone around who caters to the both of them, even if he does want it to stop.

“Really? It’s been two weeks.” Sid pulls up a seat and sits in front of the laptop.

Dean thinks there’s something that looks _right_ about him being there, like it’s his place or something. “I don’t know. I don’t like the way he looks at me though, like he’s always waiting for an order.”

“You just have to give him time. He’ll get used to us soon enough.”

Dean glares at his sock-clad feet. “I don’t want him to get used to me,” he says.

“Then what _do_ you want?”

“I don’t know.”

The smirk that appears on the man’s face is familiar, but at the same time foreign. What the hell is his name again? Dean wishes he could remember. He knows he should know him, better than anyone else, but he just can’t seem to pull the name to the forefront of his mind.

Jim? Jack? Jose?

_“Ah, yeah, he’s just deer hunting up at the cabin, and he’s probably got Jim, Jack, and Jose with him. We’re just gonna go bring him back.”_

_“What about the interview?”_

_“I’ll make the interview. It’s only a couple of days.”_

_It’s harder than he thinks it should be, sitting outside the window in the cold, eaves dropping on a conversation he definitely doesn’t need to hear. Despite what he told Sammy earlier, his shoulder still hurts from the hold he was in and his ribs are definitely bruised. It’s not so hard to breathe that he can’t Hunt, but it’s bad enough that he’s going to be feeling it for the next few days._

_“Sam, I mean, please. Just stop for a second. You sure you’re okay?”_

_But for all he knows, his brother’s right. Dad’s probably not dead, just out in some cabin, drinking his nightmares away with the three wise men._

_“Hey, everything’s gonna be okay.”_

_It doesn’t feel that way, though. There’s something different about this one, this time that Dad’s gone. Anxiety rises in his chest, building until he needs to steady his breathing again, and this time it’s not because of his bruised ribs…_

"Dean? Dean."

He knows the voice. It’s the same voice from the bedroom, the man who caused the bruised ribs and sprained shoulder. They’re healed now, but there’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that this man is dangerous. He’s too tall and the strength in his far-reaching limbs is substantial, completely tensed and waiting—for what, Dean has no clue—but there is no doubt in his mind that this man can hurt him if he wants.

Dean hardens his face, exuding the most threatening appearance he can, but the man doesn't back away, just looks at him, waiting for him to strike, as if Dean's a snake and he just has to see what it’ll do before he kills it.

Dean doesn't like it and he isn't waiting to see what the man decides. His hand curls into a fist at his side and he rolls slightly so that he’s poised on the balls of his feet, ready to strike hard and fast before the man even realizes it.

A light hand grazes his shoulder from behind, and before Dean notices he's even moved, he turns and holds the man to the wall by his neck. The man is by no means short, but Dean towers over him anyway, face twisted into a sneer of hatred until he realizes who he's pinning.

"Cas?"

Cas doesn't nod, but Dean automatically loosens his hold, pressing lightly against the angel's neck, not keeping him in place as much as checking his reaction. It’s strange. There’s fear there, but it’s not of him and definitely not of the man he was ready to kill. If anything, it’s fear _for_ the man, as if Dean hurting him will hurt Cas.

"Dean?" the man asks, and Dean remembers that it's _Sam_ who's asking, that Sam's bigger now, not a kid, not that man in his memory anymore, even if Dean can't remember how he got that way.

"Yeah, Sammy?" he asks, still looking right into Cas’s eyes. If he looks away, he thinks, maybe he’ll forget.

"You're hurting him."

But he isn't. Cas isn't showing any sign of discomfort at the hand around his neck, isn't withering in the slightest under Dean's gaze. He'd been shrinking in on himself more and more with every passing day since they found him, but like this, he's strong, ready to take whatever Dean is willing to give.

Dean's hand slides away from the angel's neck. He notes the slight frown with unease, but doesn't move to remedy it. Dean doesn't have enough of himself left to give anyone, especially not an angel who needs someone to help him fix himself. Dean is broken, doesn’t know the first thing about helping someone, not really.

He watches Cas walk head-down to the side of the bed and kneel there like he had the first night. It isn’t fair of him to confuse Cas like that, and Dean feels that guilt weigh on him more than even Sam's look of concern does when he forces a smile.

It should have been easy, he thinks as he tries to repress the rising ride of anger. It should have been simple for him to go back to how things are supposed to be. He isn't _there_ anymore, so why does he still feel like Hell is all around him?

"You need to talk about this," Sam says.

Before Hell, Sam would have undoubtedly placed a hand on his shoulder and looked up at him with those too-wide puppy eyes, but now he just sits on the edge of the bed and stares down at his boots when he speaks, doesn't even make a move to reach out to Dean.

And damn, that stings.

Dean doesn't answer though because, for all Sam's asking—and there's no doubt that Sam really does want Dean to talk about it—Dean's sure that Sam really doesn't want to know.

"I'm going out," he says instead. When he sees disapproval written all over Sam's face, he adds, "I think Cas needs to go outside more, get used to the outside world."

He knows Sam just can't think of an argument for that. He’d argued the same thing just five minutes ago.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean says.

Cas rises and comes to his side obediently. He would have done it anyway, Dean knows, but there's something in Cas's demeanor that makes Dean think he's excited. The last time he'd been outside with Dean, he was unconscious. Who knows when he was out before then.

"See if you can find something on that collar," Dean says on his way out the door. "I hate the look of the thing."

He catches Cas's frown at the statement and wonders at it. The collar is their biggest problem. It won't come off. After Dean killed the damn vamp that did that to Cas, it attached itself directly to the hunter, tying them together. Dean needs it gone or else he risks the chance of hurting Cas, and that's something he's decidedly against. Cas, on the other hand, seems almost disappointed.

But then they're outside, sunlight shining down on them from overhead, temperature just right in the November south. The leaves are readying to fall and they give the street color, livening it even in the midst of dying.

"It's nice," he decides aloud.

Cas nods his head in agreement.

"Where do you want to go?"

The angel's brow creases in confusion, but he doesn't utter a word, just looks at him with those curious eyes.

"C'mon, Cas. Where do you want to go?" But Dean knows that he won't speak without permission.

Dean turns his back to the sun and walks northward. According to the map of the town he'd spent hours studying, there should be a park nearby. Cas stays right on his haunches, not moving an inch unless it's in Dean's direction. He suppresses a sigh and continues until they reach the large expanse of grass leading up to a small playground.

Following his lead, Cas lies down next to him. He rests on his stomach and side, curled in on himself even as he slowly relaxes on the soft grass. Dean smiles at the sight, though he knows that the reason Cas doesn't stretch out like he does is because his back still pains him. His wings are full-grown now, prettily refracting the light, but they’re sore, sensitive.

What surprises Dean more than anything is how easy it is for him to read the angel. It's the same way he can read Sam, but he can blame that one on years of practice. With Cas it's simple, easy. He doesn't need to hear him speak to know what he wants. It isn't in his eyes or on his face. It’s something else, something _other_ that he can’t put a name to. It's in the loosening of his shoulders and the way he seems to radiate himself around Dean, the small smile he gets when he says _great job, Cas_ , and how the broken angel looks to him with those eyes, so trusting, just waiting to follow. He knows it's wrong, but it's hard not to like that.

"Cas," he murmurs, closing his eyes to keep from seeing the same broken expression he sees everyday in the mirror. "What do you want?" He asks, and despite his better judgment, he adds, "Speak."

"I don't know," comes the hesitant whisper.

Dean doesn't have to look at him to know that he flinches.

Dean thinks about ordering him, about asking another question and telling him to speak, if only to get a response from the angel, but he doesn’t like to do it often.

Dean opens his eyes, surprised when they come in contact with a pair of wide blue eyes he’s hardly seen before. The angel is careful to always keep his eyes downcast, focused solely on the carpet. This makes three times—Dean’s been counting—that he’s seen the angel’s eyes.

Then Cas lowers his head, breaking the connection, and Dean's hand moves of its own accord to stop him. Unlike earlier, Dean's touch is soft and gentle, guiding not forcing, his chin back up. Blue eyes meet his again and Dean finds himself speaking. "I'm going to give you an order, Castiel, and I expect to be obeyed."

Cas's eyes widen even more in surprise, looking eager of all things, but Dean doesn't let it deter him. He continues on, voice hard and demanding. It's a voice he learned from his father, one that he's used more often than he ever hoped to.

"I'm done with you hiding. You're not allowed to do that anymore. I want you to be you. No holding back, okay? If you want to speak, speak. If you want to move, move. I don’t want you to hide from me."

Cas nods his head—not like Dean expects any different—and lies his head back down on the grass.

"Let me know when you're ready to leave," Dean says, closing his own eyes against the sun.

The quiet rustling of the trees is peaceful and the sound of children's joyous laughter pastes a smirk on his face. Cas’s steady breathing lulls him to sleep. It isn’t long before he feels a press of warmth against him, Cas snuggling into his side. Dean’s surprised at the gesture, but tries not to let it show. Like he did just that morning, he pulls Cas closer, holding him tight against him.

“Is this okay?” Cas asks, voice slightly shaky.

Dean smiles warmly. “Of course.”

The answering smile Dean gets in return is more than enough to make the order worth it. They’re both broken, but who knows? Together there might even be enough pieces to make up a whole person. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and this fic will be over :( No worries though. This is just part one of a trilogy! Two more parts, five chapters each, should be expected within the year (I'm guestimating about six months or so for part 2 to start going up). I am currently in collaboration with MothMeetsFlame to write the explicit scenes in the next two parts, so though part one is relatively smutt-less, there will be more in upcoming parts. 
> 
> On another note, I have a few projects I'm working on before all of that. Updates below:
> 
> "Bloodline": Sequel will start going up mid-June! For those of you who haven't read, it's a CM/Spn xover with BAMF wee!Dean. If you wanna read the sequel, you gotta read the first. 
> 
> "Death Counted": Plot bunnies are hopping all over my brain, pushing me to write a few short fics in this world so while I'm posting the chapters for "Bloodline," a few short fics in this series will make an appearance on my profile as well. 
> 
> "No Rest for the Wicked": Despite the huge want for another fic in this 'verse, I'm not feeling it too much so my plan for a sequel is on hiatus. There will, however, be a sequel sometime in the upcoming years--hopefully sooner rather than later. 
> 
> Holy crap, that's a long ass endnote. Well, I'm done now, Fearless Readers. Until Sunday. Laura out!


	5. Deluded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it's late, Readers. I completely flaked on Mother's Day so I didn't have time to finish the fic and post earlier :( It's up now, though, and hopefully it's worth the wait. Happy Mother's day to all you moms out there. Hope you had a great weekend :) To finish it off, here's the final chapter of Defiance...

This is bad.

It's good, Castiel knows, from anyone else’s perspective. But it's bad.

What's going to happen to him now? Sure, it's freedom.

Freedom...

It almost seems as if it is impossible for him to be free. He's never had a will of his own before. Even before he was collared, he didn't have freedom. These last few weeks have been the closest he's ever come to experiencing free will.

Master Dean is nice, patient with him, smiling encouragingly whenever he has trouble finding the words for what he wants. It's been slow, but according to his Masters he's been ‘making progress.’

This is bad though. Real bad.

"You found something?" Master Dean asks. He's surprised and a little wary, but inside he's radiating joy.

"Yeah. Bobby said he finally got something on the collar. With any amount of luck, it'll be off tonight."

Master Dean smiles so wide, Castiel isn't sure whether the man's jaw can take it. He's happy, Castiel knows, but what he doesn't know is why. Master Dean is surely better with him around. Food is ready at the proper mealtimes. Their weapons are clean and ready for them to use at a moment's notice. And Master Dean has been trashing less in the night with Castiel there.

"You hear that, Cas?" Master Dean asks, the glee in his voice unmistakable.

"Yes, Dean," he says. He hates being called Master, though Castiel can't help using the title in his mind.

"So, what do we gotta do, Sammy?"

Master Sam shrugs. "Not much. The spell's pretty simple. I think we have almost everything in the trunk, and Bobby should have the last couple of ingredients at his house."

Dean smiles, another real smile, so unlike his smirks that it pains Castiel to know that he does it so little. "So a six hour trek to Bobby's and Cas is free?"

Master Sam nods.

"Then let's go."

"No."

Both of his Masters stare at him in disbelief. They’re surprised at more than him speaking this time.

"What?" Master Dean asks.

Castiel stares boldly back at him, challenging him with his eyes. He's surprised at his brazenness, but not so much as to lessen his resolve. He is not breaking the rules, he reminds himself. Master Dean gave him permission to speak his mind. He is just using the opportunity to defy his Master.

He knows that they can make him go, that if Master Dean so much as whispers the order, he MUST obey, whether he wishes to or not. But he hopes that Master Dean lives up to his word and doesn't punish him. It's been just over three weeks and not a single punishment has come his way.

Then again, he's never outright defied his Masters before.

"No," Castiel says again. He does not remove his eyes from Master Dean, doesn't look away like he should or beg for forgiveness.

"Castiel?" Master Sam asks.

It's much harder to turn his gaze to Master Sam than it was to Dean. Castiel was right in his assessment that Master Sam is ruled by his passions. If anyone of the two is to strike him, it will be Master Sam.

"I will not go," Castiel clarifies, knowing that they cannot leave him behind.

Or maybe that's their plan, Castiel realizes. It will definitely be a punishment befitting the crime to rip Master Dean away from him, and even more so if the collar thinks that Master is rejecting him.

It's only happened twice in six-hundred years—once with his old Master, once with Master Dean—and it was to Lord Bobby's house that they left him that time, writhing in pain when the collar realized what its Master was doing. According to his Masters, they had only been gone minutes, but it felt like hours.

If they reject him again, he doesn't think he'll be able to handle it.

But Master Sam has no intention of separating them, that much is clear. "Alright," he says, taking the intensity of Castiel's gaze in stride. "I'll go. I can be back tomorrow morning if I leave now."

"Take the Impala," Master Dean says, tossing his brother the keys. And, with that movement, it is decided. Castiel _will_ be freed.

Castiel falls silent as Master Sam packs his bag. He doesn't help, just slides to the ground, back against the far wall, watching his own doom with wide eyes.

Then his Masters are outside, Master Dean following to talk outside of Castiel's hearing. He listens anyway, using his grace to enhance his senses.

_What was that all about?_

_I don't know._

_I'm worried, Dean. He isn't acting right._

_I test him every morning. I'm sure it's him, Sam._

_That isn't what I mean. I mean, he should be happy, right?_

Castiel doesn't hear a response to that, but he can feel the whirlwind of emotion that normally overcomes Master Dean when he thinks back to his years in Hell.

_Right?_

_I don't know, Sammy. I'll... talk to him. Just get the stuff. We'll need it if we're doing the spell._

_If?_

_I mean when._

Master Sam scoffs at that. _Right_.

_Just get the stuff. I'll talk to him._

_You know that he can't live like this, right? He needs to be able to think for himself, Dean, not have his will completely stripped from him and replaced with yours._

Master Dean's anger is overwhelming.

_Of course not. You think I like this, Sam? One word and he takes it like a command, walking around like a fucking slave. I don't like it any more than you do._

_I'm sorry—_

_Just get the stuff from Bobby's._

_Dean._

_What?_

_I’m sorry._

_Yeah._

Castiel doesn't realize the haggard breaths his lungs try to pull in until spots flutter in front of his eyes. This is worse than just Master Sam wanting him gone. Master Sam isn't tied to him, not like Master Dean is. Master Sam is fueled by emotion, far too much of it for him to keep Castiel, but he thought that Master Dean would see his usefulness, see the way he tends his wounds and keeps things organized for Hunts, see the way he shows obedience and comfort. Master Dean is the one who is supposed to see that his usefulness far outweighs the trouble they have to go through to feed and clothe him.

Castiel hasn't been doing his job, isn't making Master Dean happy.

Master Dean doesn't want him.

The spots in front of his eyes become more than that. They fill his vision, removing it of all color. His lips tingle with the excess oxygen flooding his system, but Castiel is unable to control himself, to reach for the cold calm he's always kept close. These last weeks with his Masters have stripped him of his wall and filled the space with something he's never experienced before—emotion.

He can feel the churn of it within Master Dean, the same feelings reverberating through him.

The hotel room door slams closed, and it echoes in his ears. It's the same sound he will hear when Master Dean leaves him. It will be the sound of the door closing behind him and the Impala driving away.

"Cas?" he hears. " _Cas_!"

But he can't respond, wouldn't even if he could. He's already a burden on his Masters, not worthy of their time.

Frantic hands touch him, pull his shoulder from the wall and into the comfort of arms he would know anywhere. This is wrong, so wrong. Nearly sobbing into the man's chest will just cause more hardship, so he seals his lips together and holds his cries in. There will be plenty of time for them later.

Master rubs slow circles in his back, but Castiel is stiff in his arms. He does not deserve the comfort, not after all he's put them through in caring for him. If this is what Master wants, then Castiel has no choice but to go along with it. More than that, though, is that Castiel is determined now, determined to make it easier on Master. He has already caused too much trouble for him, taken away too much of his time.

Castiel thinks back over the last months and is appalled. Sleeping on beds, waking late, eating at the table, leaving dishes for the maid to wash, speaking without address, speaking _against_ Master today. There are countless indiscretions he's made Master witness, and all of them has warranted punishment. Castiel knows why now, why he has never received a single lick for the things he’s done.

It’s all a test. All of it. Master doesn’t want to have to order him. He wants an obedient pet that will follow the correct orders, will know his place. How disappointed Master must be, knowing that he saved Castiel only to find him an unworthy pet.

He can see it now, see how Master's order to be himself was so that he could know for certain Castiel's true nature.

If he'd known—

But he _had_ known.

He’s known it since the moment he woke in the hotel room bed with his new Masters standing over him—it was all a test.

He'd been fooled then, but he knows now, knows what Master really wants.

Castiel steadies his breathing and sits through Master's ministrations, waiting like a good pet.

"Cas?" Master asks him, hand still rubbing his back. "You ok?"

Castiel nods once, eyes still downcast. He _is_ okay. He’s always okay.

"You sure?"

Castiel nods again.

"Tell me."

"I am okay," he says, not daring to disobey the order.

He can feel Master's skepticism through the collar, but cannot think of a way to convince him, so he keeps silent.

"Okay then," Master says, not pressing the issue. He stands and Castiel stands with him.

Castiel looks around the hotel room in disgust. The beds are unmade, dishes piled in the sink, floors unkempt and sick with filth. Laundry is piled in the corner next to the hastily packed duffle bag. He's already allowed one of his Masters out of the hotel without the proper accommodations, the least he can do is tend to the mess available to him. He can make it up to Master Sam later.

Castiel shivers at the thought, the expectation of pain, but doesn't allow it to keep him from what needs to be done. His clothes need to go first. Wearing clothing should never even been tolerated in the first place. Masters need to be able to take their pet without any reservations. Clothing is too restrictive, too much work for something that should be simple for a pet.

Castiel rids himself of his shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it into the pile of clothing he is set to wash in the tub. The pants come next. He shimmies out of them and drops them to the floor, kicking them quickly into the pile over his shirt.

The self-loathing he feels when he sees the underwear on his body is enough to freeze him to the spot. How could he ever have thought this was alright?

"Cas?" Master questions from behind him. His tone is unreadable, but Castiel is sure there is a hint of concealed displeasure in it. "What are you doing?"

Castiel turns toward the voice, but remembers not to answer just in time.

Master groans loudly, frustrated in Castiel's behavior. "We're not back to this again, are we?"

Again, Castiel refrains from answering, though this time he's sure that it's a question that's not meant to be answered.

"What's wrong?" Master asks, but Castiel remains stubbornly silent.

No speaking, he reminds himself.

Master comes closer and pulls his chin up until he has no choice but to meet Master's eyes. They're bright green with flecks of blue and hazel in them, tinged with a deep sadness and the hard cast of a rough life. They're eyes he can fall into and drift for centuries.

That thought cuts off again when he remembers how little Master wants him in return.

"Castiel," Master says. His eyes harden when he speaks again. "Tell me what's wrong."

Castiel's voice is anything but steady. "I've been bad." His voice cracks at the end of the last word. His wings ache in anticipation of his punishment for that fact. "And you don't want me," he adds in a whisper.

"I don't... want...?" Something seems to click in Master's head then. "Castiel," he says, keeping his voice even though the whirlwind of emotion Castiel can feel from him is tinged with anger. "Cas... Why do you think I don't want you?"

Castiel knows this is another test. He does the only sensible thing.

"I don't want to keep telling you to speak," Master pleads. "Just answer me, please."

Castiel doesn't steady himself before he answers even though it means a harsh punishment when Master hears what he has to say. "I heard you and Master Sam talking outside," he says.

"He's not your Master," Master says roughly, and Castiel nods.

Lord Sam is not Master. There is only one Master like it should be. Castiel nearly smiles in success. If Master is willing to claim him, then he must be following the correct rules, and Master is pleased with him.

Master takes a deep breath to calm the rising tide of rage inside of him before he speaks again. “You overheard me and Sam?” he asks.

Castiel nods.

“Okay,” Master says, running the hand not gripping his chin through his hair. “I get that you think we don’t want you… but how have you been bad?” he asks.

Castiel tries to keep his voice from wavering as he answers. This is the part he’s been dreading, telling of his shame as a pet, of everything he’s done against Master’s wishes, of failing Master’s test.

“I’ve been bad,” he reiterates. “There are dishes in the sink and the floor is filthy. I slept on the bed and ate at the table and wore _clothes_. I’m a bad pet,” he whispers.

Master growls at that. “You’re not a pet.”

And that’s what makes Castiel feel the most shame. After all Master has done for him, he can’t even be a proper pet. It was one thing for him to refuse to be a pet to his old Master. His old Master cared nothing for him, had a hundred pets just like Castiel, only wanted him to play with, only wanted him because he was fun. Master is different. He is patient and kind, righteous. He does good things, and Castiel would be proud to be his pet, to serve him, but Master is right.

Castiel isn’t a pet.

He’s been acting as nothing more than a common slave, one who cannot serve his Master with affection and obedience in his heart, and who defies Master’s orders and thinks himself equal. It’s wrong, and Master is right to send him away. Master deserves so much better than a half-broken pet.

“You’re not a pet,” Master repeats.

Castiel wants to pull his head down, wants to be alone to lick his wounds in peace, but he knows he deserves this, knows he deserves to have to face his shame in the eye, so he keeps his head where it is and forces himself to keep contact with Master’s disappointed gaze.

“Cas,” Master says again. “Are you okay?”

Castiel nods.

“You’re shaking.”

It isn’t until then that he realizes his emotions are showing themselves. Sobs are trying to claw their way through him, but he’s holding them back through sheer force of will, the only markers being the shivers that rack his body. It’s too late to try to hold them back now that Master has noticed.

“Cas?”

It’s technically a question, so Castiel answers. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I can be a better pet, please…” He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. Please don’t make me go? Please don’t be angry? Please don’t give up?

“What?” Master asks, but realization dawns on him then, softening his eyes in a way Castel doesn’t expect. “Cas,” he says. “I don’t want a pet. Ever. I’ve never wanted a pet or a slave or anything like that.”

Castiel wants to believe him, but it’s hard. He _knows_ it’s a test.

Then why can’t he figure out what it’s for?

“I love you, Cas.”

Castiel can feel the emotion through the collar, and he can’t think of a reason Master is lying. “I love you, too,” he says.

“No,” Master says sadly. “You don’t.”

Castiel is silent, not arguing with him.

Master nods like he expected the silence. “See,” he says. “You can’t love me, not with that thing on.” He points disgustedly at the collar. “If I ordered you to tell me you love me, would you?”

“I…” Castiel wants to lie, but he doesn’t. “Yes.”

“And if the collar thought I wanted you to tell me you love me, would it make you?”

“Yes,” Castiel whispers, knowing it to be true, but not wanting to admit it.

“We have to take it off, Cas,” Master says. “I’m not your Master. I won’t make you do anything you aren’t ready for, and I’m not sending you anywhere. If it was up to me, I’d take you with me everywhere, but it’s not my choice. It’s yours.”

“Mine?” he asks.

Master— _Dean_ —nods.

“My choice,” Castiel whispers. It could be a test, he knows. And Dean could be lying to him. But Castiel isn’t sure he cares. He was willing to take his freedom in death before the Winchester brothers saved him. Isn’t he willing to risk that now? Castiel is surprised to find that the answer is a firm _yes_.

He nods his head. “Yes,” he says.

Dean’s smile is radiant and the warmth that floods him through the collar is enough to reinforce the theory that this isn’t a test after all.

The rest of the day passes in a blur for Castiel. He spends the time lying quietly next to Dean, listening to the man’s even breathing. It soothes him like nothing else. Dean laughs and jokes sometimes, or tells stories about his childhood, regaling him with adventures from his past, some of which Castiel deems impossible, but he chooses not to say anything about that.

Dean stands and stretches and Castiel follows suit. They clean guns and finish laundry together. When night approaches, Castiel sleeps peacefully in Dean’s arms, holding tight while he sleeps in case another nightmare makes an appearance in either of their dreams.

Castiel has gotten used to dreaming. Being nearly drained of his grace forces him to eat and sleep like a normal human. He’s only capable of light touches of healing now, but it isn’t all bad. Dean still relishes in the sight of Castiel’s wings, stares at them in awe when they lie together on the bed, taking solace in each others’ company.

When the hotel door opens, it’s late the next morning. Dean sleeps soundly behind him, hugging him close, and Castiel is the epitome of comfort.

Sam smiles at the sight and Castiel can’t help but return it. If Sam’s surprised at his smile, he doesn’t show it, just asks, “he sleep well?”

“No nightmares,” Castiel answers, not bothered in the slightest at speaking after Dean’s admission the night before.

“How about you?” Sam sets his duffle bag in the corner and shuffles around for something Castiel can’t see.

“I slept soundly as well,” he says. It’s hard not to sleep well with Dean wrapped around him.

Sam smiles at him, dimples Castiel never noticed before making an appearance on his face. How Castiel could have ever seen him as a threat, he doesn’t know.

“Have you come to a decision yet?” he asks. “About the collar?”

Castiel chews on his lip. Last night, he was ready, but the morning brought with it a hundred doubts. There is too much he doesn’t know, too much he cannot anticipate. “I don’t know,” he says, sadly. “I… no.”

“Why did you change your mind?” Dean asks from behind him on the bed. Castiel hadn’t even known he was awake.

“I want to stay with you, like this. I don’t know if this is really me, but I know that I _want_ it to be real. Isn’t that good enough?” He turns to face Dean, but there’s something hidden in the depths of the man’s eyes that wasn’t there the night before.

“Wouldn’t you rather be free?” Dean asks.

“I’ve never been free,” Castiel says with conviction. “Someone else’s will has always guided me. It was my father, then heaven, my superiors, and Master once I was taken from my garrison. As an angel, I have no will. It is God’s word.” It’s a dismaying thought for Castiel. If they remove the collar, won’t he be forced back into serving heaven and be taken away from Dean? If that is the case, he would rather leave the collar on. He can definitely get used to waking up in the man’s arms and sleeping soundly with a warm body pressed tightly to him. Heaven doesn’t even compare.

“We’ve never really been all that big on rules,” Dean says, a rueful smirk coloring his face. “Ain’t that right, Sammy?”

Sam chuckles. “Well, that’s us,” he says proudly. “Team Free Will.”

Dean laughs right along with him. “You’ll be free, Cas. You don’t have to follow anyone’s orders if you don’t want to. How about it?” he asks.

Castiel thinks for a moment before smiling. “I think I like the sound of that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, Readers. Part one is complete! What do you think? It's my first slash fic so feedback is welcome. Part two will start going up in about six months (that puts it in about November of 2014). If you continue to read on ffn, it will be rated teen. If you read on AO3, it will be explicit with scenes by MothMeetsFlame. Same plot, same scenes, just plus or minus the smut. And... that's it, folks. Many thanks to you, Fearless Readers, for the kudos and comments. And a special shoutout to mrscastiel96 for the request :) Read on!


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